


the clot in the quicksand

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Cold Open Challenge, Episode: s01e16 Hook, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Needles, QUICKSAND
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: They’ve quickly ticked the boxes of each possible complication Mac had listed.Sun exposure, dehydration, hypothermia…Day One of The Cold Open Challenge: The Quicksand scene from 1x16 Hook.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 74





	the clot in the quicksand

Mac shivers lightly under the blanket pulled close around his shoulders. The disinfecting laundry process makes the material stiff and rough against his skin, but it’s fresh from the warmer and his shivers are finally abating.

The quicksand set like cement, leaving his hair sticking up and almost rivaling Jack’s fauxhawk when Mac pulled himself from the pond, collapsing on the edge next to Jack. Rolling onto his back, he stared blankly at the green canopy above them. Panting as he caught his breath. His chest protested, aching from the bruising he’d already had when they’d fallen in and the additional pressure the ‘sand exerted on them. 

He reached out, absently bumping the fist Jack extended, now an instinct to reach for that hand, before dropping his arm across his chest. Despite the heat and humidity, he was freezing from their unexpected dunking. 

Jack rolled onto his side and pushed himself up on one arm. “You alright?”

“Will be,” Mac nodded, shivering. 

“Your lips are blue. Everything else is burned to a nice red crisp. With your blond hair, it’s all very patriotic.” Jack’s hand waved across his face before settling on his forehead. He canted his head, dropping his hand down to Mac’s shoulder. He frowned, and Mac leaned into the touch. A moment later Jack shimmied across the jungle floor. 

“C’mere.” he pulled Mac toward him, settling him against his chest. Squirming a little. 

“Shouldn't stop. Gotta keep moving,” Mac argued, sinking further into Jack’s warmth.

Jack curved his arms around, holding Mac’s cold fingers in his own, both their hands settled on Mac’s chest. Two fingers slid down, resting against the pulse in Mac’s wrist. “We will. Just gotta warm up a little. You’re more of an ice cube than you usually are.”

“If we weren’t in Uruguay, I’d think the spring feeding the quicksand was part of a glacial runoff.”

“Normal people don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It was cold.”

“Who talks about glacial runoffs while in a jungle?”

“Who asks for margaritas while being crushed to death by quicksand?”

“Who ends up in a puddle of quicksand?”

Mac shrugged, conceding that point.

“I went forty years before I ever saw the stuff in the flesh, which I’ve gotta tell you, little six-year-old Jacky would be sorely disappointed finding out it took so long. I always thought quicksand was going to be a much bigger problem in my life.”

“Your life specifically?” Mac chuckles. 

“Nah, like in movies, they’re always falling into quicksand and sinkin’. I just thought it was something I’d have to spend more time watching out for. Guess it makes sense that I never saw the stuff until I met you.”

Mac craned his neck to look up at Jack. “This wasn’t my fault. I never saw quicksand before either. How do I know it’s not your fault we fell into it?”

“Same way that I now live with the constant threat of gettin’ barbequed.”

Mac scoffs.

“Look, all I know is six-year-old Jack also thought being lit on fire was going to be a bigger problem in his life, with how often they made us practice the stop, the drop, and the roll in school but then made it a few decades before I had to use it.”

“You never caught on fire before me?” Mac raises a dubious eyebrow.

“Nope. Until I met you, it was just a weird-ass thing they made us practice every year during fire safety week. Then I met you and it made sense.” 

“But you grew up on a ranch in Texas. I’ve heard stories of the things you and your cousins did growing up. I can’t believe you never had to…”

“So, how many things did you light on fire?”

“That’s not a fair question.”

“That’s a plenty fair question."

Mac reached up and patted Jack’s shoulder wiggling out of his grasp. He stumbled to his feet, muscles still feeling cold and stiff. Shaking out the pins and needles sensation that flooded his foot, he turned toward Jack. “Alright, come on, big guy. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover if we want to make ex-fil by nightfall.”

Jack accepted the hand Mac offered him. Groaning as he rose. “You’re gonna just ignore my question?”

“It’s probably another ten klicks to ex-fil from here,” Mac said, squinting at the ridge, the helicopter waiting for them at the base, and starting off at a steady pace, wincing as his leg protested.

“Refusing to answer is just provin’ my point.”

“Wish the sat phone wasn’t at the bottom of that quicksand. We could let them know we’re on our way so they don’t leave us behind. And no, it is an unfair question and a false argument. You can’t compare times you've been on fire to times I may have lit a fire. What about campfires?”

“You burned down your school.”

“I melted the football field. A little,” Mac protested, a half-amused, half-annoyed smirk on his face. “And that wasn’t even really my fault.”

“Fine. How many times were you on fire?”

Mac shook his head as Jack continued needling him. “More than once, but nothing severe.”

“So, you’re telling me that it’s pretty much a miracle you survived childhood.”

“Not a miracle. I was careful and Mission City Elementary took fire prevention month pretty seriously…”

“Fire prevention _month_?” Jack crowed. 

“You burn down like one toolshed and everyone loses their minds.” Mac teased. 

“Surprised you didn’t want to blow more of those IEDs. Most techs I’d worked with would just blow the damn things as soon as look at them.”

“Can’t learn anything from it if it's just a hunk of burning twisted metal.”

“Think you might have just come up with a new, as of yet, not discussed retirement plan for us.” Jack hummed. “Direct from the Sandbox, it’s the King of EoD singing his new number one single. Hunk-a, hunk-a burnin’ metal.”

Mac shook his head, ignoring most of Jack’s teasing guffaws and lip curlin’ warbling. The pain that pulsed in his leg with each step, quickly becoming a distraction. The terrain was rough with overgrowth.

Jack’s voice grew breathy as he continued mutilating the lyrics from the King of Rock ‘n Roll. “Oh, I’ve got it! We’ll get you a white jumpsuit covered in paper clips.”

Mac tripped over a large tree root. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. His leg pulsed in time with his heartbeat as he tried to ignore the physiology lecture he gave Jack earlier about the affects of quicksand on the human body. Biology isn't his strongest subject, it never held must interest for him compared to chemistry or physics, now he wishes he'd paid more attention. Or less attention. Whatever would help him out with these worst case scenarios playing through his head.

“Hey, Mac,” Jack called out, puffing and putting his hands on his knees. “I gotta stop for a minute, man.”

Mac spun around, scanning Jack head to toe, worrying ratcheting skyward. “You alright?”

“Sure, just think we need to hit up a rest stop,” Jack waved off the concern.

“Are you having trouble breathing?” Mac took a few steps towards Jack, moving into his personal space. 

“Nah, you’re just going at a pretty good clip. Guess I’ll need to work on my cardio if I’m gonna try singing back-up and dancin’. It’s harder than it looks. Especially with this humidity."

Mac reached out, snagged Jack’s wrist and felt for his pulse.

“What are you-”

Mac shushed him. “It’s a little fast.”

“Told ya, you were going at a decent clip,” Jack tried pulling his wrist away, but Mac held tight. “Give it back.”

“Stop,” Mac stilled Jack’s struggles to free his arm with a look.

“Get your grimy paws off me and take your own damn pulse.”

“Well, now, you know how annoying it feels when someone does this to you.”

"Wouldn't have to do that if you stopped hiding stuff from me," Jack muttered, taking slow deep breaths.

“It’s slowing down." Mac dropped the limb. "Are you sure you aren’t short of breath? Difficulty taking a deep breath or anything?”

“No, breathing’s fine,” Jack takes another deep breath as if to prove it.

“Pain in your chest...” Jack is already shaking his head, “or anywhere where?”

The head shaking paused, cocking to one side, considering the question.

“Jack?”

“Not pain so much as a little... uncomfortable.”

“Where?”

“...In my leg.” 

Mac pushed Jack to lean against a tree for balance while he squatted down, rolling up Jack’s pant leg. He placed the back of his hand against the skin that looked a little flushed, then tugged up the other pant leg, visually comparing the two limbs.

“Take off your boot.”

“You’re not even gonna ask nicely? Jack, give me your phone. Jack, let me wear your jacket, I’m cold. Jack, take off your boot.”

“I’ve never asked for your jacket.”

“There’ve been plenty of times you should have. Didn’t bother bringing along your own and sat there shivering.”

“Which, you didn’t have to give me.”

“Didn’t you hear? You were sitting there shivering. What else was I supposed to do? You get weird about cuddling,” Jack grumbled, balanced on one leg while tugging off his boot and sock.

“It’s a little swollen. You twist it or anything when we went down?” Mac assessed the pulse on the top of Jack’s foot and behind his ankle. 

“What are you thinking, hoss?”

Shaking himself free from the memory of their trek out of the jungle, and the science lecture on the dangers of being trapped by quicksand, Mac mumbles around the thermometer, “I’m thinking maybe we weren’t so lucky."

They’ve quickly ticked the boxes of each possible complication Mac had listed.

Sun exposure, dehydration, hypothermia…

Mac absently opens his mouth, allowing Reese to grab the thermometer when it beeps. His attention focused on the bed next to him. Jack is sitting up, breathing deeply as Dr. McClain listens intently to his chest. 

Reese inflates the blood pressure cuff wrapped snugly around Mac’s arm again. Noting the notches as she releases the valve. Mac barely notices. 

“I’ve never even seen quicksand in real life either,” Dr. McClain says, draping his stethoscope around his neck as he moves down to the edge of the bed, examining Jack’s leg that’s propped up on a pillow. Like Mac did in the jungle, he assesses color, temperature, and pulses. 

“That’s what I keep sayin’,” Jack gestures emphatically.

“Over and over,” Mac mutters. 

“So then, my boy, the Dread Pirate Wesley, figured out how to get us out of the lightning sand, but now that I’m saying it, I don’t like the implication that makes me Princess Buttercup.” Jack reclines against the raised head of the bed resuming his storytelling as soon as McClain completed his assessment. “And no offense, Wes, but getting out of quicksand is actually super boring and time consuming. No rope vines or anything.”

“The human body is less dense than the colloid nature of the clay and sand so it’s impossible to actually drown in quicksand. You’ll start to float after sinking to about your chest in depth-” Mac taps his chest as an illustration. “If you hyper oxygenate you can increase your buoyancy-”

“Mac, it was boring enough living through it once, all the waitin’ and deep breathin’ and toe-wigglin’, don’t make me live through it again.” Jack throws a dramatic arm across his eyes. 

“That toe wiggling probably kept things from being worse.” McClain crosses to the bed Mac rests on, putting a hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Can you sit up for me, I want to take a listen to your lungs.”

As instructed, Mac leans forward takes several deep breaths while Dr. McClain presses the stethoscope first against his back and then to his chest. He glances over at Jack, who is watching just as intently as Mac watched Jack’s exam a few minutes ago. Concern evident on his face. 

“Well, I don’t know how common quicksand injuries are,” Dr. McClain says, completing the same assessment on Mac’s leg. “But I’d say you guys were lucky. You were right, Mac, the pressure did cause a DVT but based on my assessment, I don’t think they embolized. We’ll get an ultrasound of your legs, and a CT scan to make sure nothing ended up in your lungs.” He pats Mac’s chest before he moves across the room. “But if that’s clean and you guys keep your sats up over the next few hours and promise to stop back for a check-up in a few days, I think we can treat this at home.” 

Jack perks up at the news and bumps Mac’s outstretched fist. “Good. I need a shower. I got sand in places I didn’t even know I had places.”

“We’ll start you on a blood thinner,” McClain turns, addressing Reese. "Enoxaparin."

“That blender idea wasn’t so crazy, hoss. I bet those margaritas you'd whip up would be a way more fun way for us to thin out our blood.”

* * *

Twin duffle bags thump hard against the floor, several hours and too many vitals checks later. Dropped just inside the entryway as soon as their fatigued owners cross the threshold. Filled with dusty, sweaty clothes that now that he’s thinking about it, maybe they should have dropped on the porch and let them air out overnight until he feels motivated enough to empty their contents into the washing machine. 

Mac frowns. If he should dump them into the washing machine at all? The quicksand stiffened the material as it dried and despite the upgrades he’s made over the years to a machine he’s counted on to save his wardrobe, he’s not sure if it’s up to the challenge.

That’s a problem for tomorrow though. 

He looks at his watch, or later today. It’s just after ten in the morning. 

Mac glances longingly towards the door that heads to the deck. He wants nothing more than to collapse into the comforting familiarity around the fire pit. He’s grumpy and exhausted, the last few missions and jetlag finally catching up with him. His quick nap in Medical while waiting for discharge left him discombobulated. Grunting, he turns down the hallway leading to the bedrooms and more importantly the bathrooms. 

Jack echoes his grunt, acknowledging the unspoken plan and veers off to the guest bedroom, the door clicking solidly closed behind him. There’s been a steady migration of his belongings from his apartment into Mac’s house over the years. Increasing in frequency and volume with each injury and near-death encounter. Moreso now that Bozer knows their secret. Mac can recover at home, in his own bed rather than hiding out at Jack’s place. No longer a need for the increasingly dubious cover stories to explain bruises and broken limbs. 

Jack too, has started spending convalescent time at Mac’s house. 

Mac staggers into his own room, the door thuds shut behind him and he sags against it for a moment, letting his head thump against the solid wood, wincing at the pressure it puts on the goose egg located at the back of his skull. He balances on one foot, giving his aching leg a reprieve. 

With herculean effort, Mac pushes himself upright, using the momentum to force his stiff limbs across the room. He shrugs out of his plaid-button down and peels his t-shirt over his head, a groan forces its way out of his mouth. 

He pauses for a moment in front of the mirror, tossing his shirts at the hamper. Faint bruises are beginning to erupt over his ribs. Turning on the showerhead, he lets the water warm up while shucking his cargo pants and socks. 

He gently presses against the swelling around his ankle, the skin warm to the touch. Still lightly throbbing as it had the entire hike to ex-fil. After diagnosing Jack with a deep vein thrombosis, Mac reluctantly admitted he thought he was suffering from the same ailment. No longer able to ignore the symptoms. Mutual concern for the other was one of the only reasons each man was able to keep putting one foot ahead of the other. 

Snagging a clean towel from the linen closet, Mac steps under the spray. 

A hiss escapes when the water hits his abraded cheek. He leans heavily against the tile, letting the steady pulse of water massage his aching muscles. His eyes slide closed. If he’s not careful he could fall asleep right here and any way that scenario goes, ends with Jack breaking down the door in concern so he forces himself to stand up straight. Slicking his hair back, he reaches for the shampoo, avoiding the aforementioned goose egg as his suds up his blond locks. 

He allows himself the luxury of the spray for a few more minutes, until he feels his legs turning into jello, before shutting off the water and wrapping himself in a towel. 

Wandering back into his room, he rifles through his dresser for a pair of sweatpants, snagging an old t-shirt from a charity run that he thinks might actually have been Jack’s - you made me run thirteen miles, hoss, without anyone chasing me, and all I got was this dumb shirt? - or the washer stretched the thing an extra size. Either way, he’s grateful for the give in the material as he pulls it over his head. 

His bed looks so inviting and comfortable, and he’d very much like to lay down, even just sit down on it for a minute, but he knows he wouldn’t get up again. And his sleep schedule is already shot to hell. He was jetlagged before this mission and it’s only late-morning now.

With one last look at his bed, he leaves the room. As he limps past the guest room he can still hear the drizzle of the shower. 

Mac heads into the kitchen. He grabs a flyer for one of the local pizza places off the fridge, reading the coupon and checking the time before dialing the number. As he places their order, grabs a bottle of water and heads out on the deck, enjoying the feel of his bare feet against the warm wooden boards. There’s still the hint of a chill deep in his bones.

He’s been around the globe but the skyline never fails to steal his attention. 

He stares at it as he absently, eases himself into one of the Adirondack chairs, breathing through the protests of his muscles, curling one long leg up onto the seat warmed by the sun. The other he stretches out in front of him, pumping his ankle a few times. 

The quiet of the neighborhood is punctuated by the occasional barking dog, or mother calling for the kids to come home for an early lunch. All oblivious to how close their worlds came to erupting into chaos. Waking to the news that life as they knew it was over, changed forever. Now, it will be barely a footnote in a report buried on a hard drive somewhere. 

Even in Mac’s own life, it will fade like his bruises to a distant memory. A long line of missions hidden in his brain to be dredged up one day, in a “didn’t we go there once?” “Haven’t we done something like this before?” blur. 

Mac shifts further onto his hip, resting his cheek against the seatback, the wood smooth against the abraded skin under his jaw. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. 

Asphalt and grass and sunshine. 

Shimmering heat under a cool ocean breeze. 

Footsteps clomp on the stairs, Jack taking purposefully heavy steps in his sock-clad feet, warning Mac of his impending arrival. A chair squawks as Jack pulls it closer to Mac’s and drops into it. He squints, snagging another chair and swings it around in front of him, propping his leg up. 

“You good?”

“Tired.”

“Not short of breath or anything, right?” 

“Nah,” Mac shakes his head. “You?”

“Nope.” The ‘p’ pops. “You can share my footrest,” Jack offers, scooting his leg over. ”S’posed to keep it elevated,” he tacks on when Mac starts to decline the offer.

The breeze ruffles Mac’s hair as he sinks deeper into his chair after elevating his leg. He feels himself relaxing. Starting to drift. Eyelids growing heavy and blinks becoming long and languid. 

A scream pierces the quiet of the neighborhood. Mac leaps from his chair, while Jack reaches for his gun. Spinning in tandem and surveying the areas for danger before a peal of childish laughter resounds. 

Mac meets Jack’s eyes, dropping back into his chair and giving a shaky laugh as the fight or flight response dissipates. 

“They have no idea…”

“That they could have woken up to a much different world this morning? No.”

“Does it ever, I don’t know, bother you?”

Stroking the scruff on his cheek, Jack eases back into his chair, considering Mac’s question and his answer. 

“No,” Jack says decisively, then furrows his brow. “Sometimes. Like when a jerk is rude to a cashier at the store, or someone cuts me off in traffic. You want to grab ‘em by the neck and shake ‘em a little. Tell them how you just saved the damn world, so they could be a little nicer, please.”

Mac chuckles. 

“But nah, not really. Cause if they don’t know that means we did our jobs. Let them sleep easy. It’s okay if you don’t agree though. The miracles you pull off, someone should tell your story.”

“No, what you’re saying, that’s what I’ve been feeling lately. I’m glad that the kids down the block and Mrs. Schwartz don’t know. And with Bozer knowing, it makes some things easier, but I still wish he didn’t.”

“I felt that way with Diane and Riley. Just being glad that they didn’t have to worry about it being the end of the world every time I was called away on a bathroom tile emergency.”

“I don’t understand how that was a viable cover story.”

“Being able to tell Riley the truth, after all this time has lifted a huge burden I didn’t even realize I was carrying.”

“I am glad I don’t have to lie to Boze anymore. That always bothered me. Wish I’d gotten to be the one to tell him though, rather than having a hitman show up at the front door.” 

The doorbell chimes and Jack flinches.

“Pizza’s here,” Mac chuckles, rising and heading for the door, Jack following behind.

“Do me a favor and make sure it’s the pizza before you just open the door for any assassin or murderer ballsy enough to ring the doorbell.” Jack places himself in a defensive position behind the door as Mac pulls it open with an eye roll.

“Thanks, man, keep the change,” Mac hands over several bills and accepts the steaming pizza boxes. Swinging the door shut, he shakes his head. “Another example of some poor kid having no idea how close his world came to changing forever.” 

“I wasn’t gonna shoot him,” Jack grabs a couple of sodas from the fridge before trailing behind Mac back out to the deck. 

“And your word choice doesn’t make me feel any better,” Mac says, opening the top box and selecting a gooey, cheesy slice.

“I wasn’t going to cause any bodily harm.”

“Yeah, no, that doesn’t actually help either,” Mac huffs around a bite of hot cheese. 

Jack takes a bite and moans. Rolling his eyes in content delight before digging in heartily. They passed on Phoenix Med fare, holding out for this. And they polish off the pizzas in record time. Jack gathers up the leftovers and their plates, taking them into the house. 

Mac tries hiding his grimace when Jack returns a few minutes later, dropping two pharmacy bags on the chair they are using as a footrest. 

“Guess it’s time for meds,” Jack says with a wince, opening the bag containing his prescription. He pulls out one of the preloaded syringes with auto-retractable needles. Glaring at it in his hand, before peeling open the package. 

“This sucks, dude,” Jack grumbles, pulling up his t-shirt. He tips his head back, shaking it lightly. As though if he doesn't look at it, the syringe in his hand will disappear, the med administered without needing to subject himself to the poke.

“Sucks a lot less than having that clot break off and travel to your brain.” Mac can just make out the mild tremor in Jack’s fingertips. His partner hates needles, with good reason. "You need all the brain cells you can hang onto."

Jack scowls at him, huffing two more quick breaths, trying to gather his courage. 

“You’ve given me shots dozens of times,” Mac encourages. “Those antibiotics I had to get intramuscularly while we were hiding out. You didn’t even flinch. And this is way easier than that was. This is nothing.” 

“Stickin’ someone else with a needle is a little easier than stickin’ yourself, hoss.”

“Come on, you dug an arrow out of your thigh and gave yourself stitches. More than once you’ve given yourself stitches. ”

“Yeah, but that had to be done.”

“So does this.”

“It felt a lot more life and death. Middle of nowhere and had to get to ex-fil. Sitting on your deck doesn’t have the same urgency.”

Mac shrugs. “I could drive you out to the desert and leave you there.”

“And my leg doesn’t feel that bad. Little throbbing in my calf, but that’s all.”

“Give it here,” Mac says, leaning forward and holding out his hand expectantly.

Jack’s lip curls up. “Back up there a second, Stabby. You’re a little too quick to jump on the stab Jack with a needle train. I’ll do it.”

“Before it’s time for your next dose or…” Mac raises an eyebrow as Jack grumbles. “Look, you’ve done this for me. Let me do this for you.” 

Jack thrusts the still capped syringe at Mac, leaning back in his chair. He tilts his head away from his partner, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Do your worst.”

In a quick, one-two-three motion, Mac selects his target and cleans the area. Pinches the skin on Jack’s belly between his thumb and forefinger, inserting the needle and depressing the plunger. As soon as the medication is injected the needle sheaths itself. Jack barely had time to flinch.

“Done.”

“No.”

“Yeah, big guy, all finished.”

Jack lowers his arm and cracks an eyelid. “Really?”

“Yeah, see, no big deal.”

Jack wrinkles his forehead focusing his attention on how he feels, squirming in his seat. “Burns a little.” Then he leans forward watching Mac, who sighs.

“Guess it’s my turn,” Mac says, picking up the other package of syringes, the one with his name printed on the label. He unwraps the medication slowly, studying the construction spring-loaded self-sheathing needle.

“See, it’s not as easy so easy to go stabbin’ yourself.”

“I’m not stalling, I’m evaluating the design. It’s a good build. Maybe something I could use…”

“Uh-huh,” Jack says. 

“I’m going to do it.”

“Yeah,” Jack closes his hand over Mac’s. “But you don’t have to. Let me.”

Mac opens his mouth to protest. He can do it, he doesn’t need help, and then he meets Jack’s eyes and the fight goes out of him. “Yeah. yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“‘Course,” Jack says, tugging up Mac’s t-shirt. He rubs an alcohol prep pad over Mac’s skin. “‘Sides, you’re too skinny. Don’t have nothing to grab onto here.” Jack pinches the skin. “You want a countdown or…”

Mac opens his mouth to reply and Jack sticks him. And it’s really nothing. He definitely feels the poke, but it’s not as bad as he’d started to fear. Jack tugs his shirt back into place and pats his shoulder. 

Both syringes disposed of in the portable sharps container, Jack leans back in his chair. “Two weeks of this, huh?”

Mac nods. “Twice a day.”

“You want to keep up this arrangement? I poke you, you poke me?” 

“Probably easier that way.”

“And we can keep this to ourselves, right? Your new found transparency with Bozer ain't gonna make you want to confess the truth or anything, right?"

"No."

"Not Riles or Matty or anyone?" Jack presses. "And if we're all here, hanging out around the firepit and it's time for another dose..."

"We'll just head inside and take our meds in private." Mac extends his first.

Jack bumps it with his own. “I love ya, buddy.”


End file.
